


Pressed Foxglove and Wolfsbane

by Winterlynne_Norvic



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Feels, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Stiles, Crossover, Fluff and Humor, Hanahaki Disease, Lost Boys, M/M, Might be OOC, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, So many pop culture references, Stiles Stilinski Leaves Beacon Hills, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterlynne_Norvic/pseuds/Winterlynne_Norvic
Summary: Stiles couldn’t breathe, the flowers growing in his throat were suffocating him and the panic building up beside them made the intake of oxygen impossible and Stiles knew he’d be passing out if he didn’t take any air into his lungs soon.It had happened before sure, many times actually. After his mom’s death, after the kanima, after the alpha pack. After the Nogitsune. Stiles hadn’t been a stranger to panic and anxiety attacks for most of his admittedly short and traumatic life. Usually though he could lock himself in his room and pass out in relative safety if he couldn’t calm himself down.Usually he would be doing that, if he hadn’t chosen to run away from home and the unrequited love of his life. Stiles would whimper if he had any ability to do so.Instead, he passed out.On the side of a road with a car coming right at him.Well, Stiles thought before he’d been forced into unconsciousness, he’s going to be dying anyway, at least this way he won’t feel it.
Relationships: Isaac Lahey/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Pressed Foxglove and Wolfsbane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alighterwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alighterwood/gifts).



> This is my first time ever posting a crossover, and the only reason I even started writing it was for the amazing alighterwood who deserves all the hugs. I’m not gonna be updating at fast rates cause my life is a chaotic mess, but anyway, here’s the first chapter!

If anyone had asked Dean how he’d thought his day was going to go, he definitely wouldn’t have mentioned almost running over a kid with his Baby. Sure she purred like a beast and Dean drove at speeds that were most definitely not within the speed limit, but forgive him for not knowing the kid would keel over as Dean drove past.

At least he didn’t  _ actually _ hit him. That would have been not great. More not great than Dean’s everyday life. Actually Dean’s life is pretty fucked up, so maybe this is on par for whatever cruel fucking twist of fate God decided to play on him today.

_ Saving people, hunting things, the family business _ Dean scoffed as the words echoed in his mind. Right now, Baby was the only family he had, and he hadn’t done any saving in a long while. He didn’t wear the hero hair as well as his brother did when he wasn’t denying their upbringing or hyped up on demon blood. Well, guess what Sammy, Dean got to run this time. Walk off the path and say fuck you to every deserving and undeserving person who tried to get him back on it.

He glanced in his rear view mirror and tried not to wonder why then he decided to help this kid when he couldn’t even help himself. The kid—because Dean refused to believe the pale mole-speckled boy as legally able to drink let alone any older than that—lay unconscious across Baby’s backseat. The paleness seemed like a genetic thing, the kid probably burned in direct sunlight, but the skin under his eyes and forearms when he checked them looked almost translucent. It wasn’t healthy, plain and simple, and Dean hadn’t lost enough of his humanity yet to leave an unconscious boy on the side of the road.

Just because he hadn’t hit him didn’t mean jack shit if he left the kid there and let something worse get him, and Dean knew there were many things in the dark, human and not. 

But back to the thing where he couldn’t take care of himself without even factoring in other humans. Humans like the one in his car that Dean had acquired off the side of the road. Currently unconscious. Breathing somewhat shallowly. Instead of checking for pockmarks maybe Dean should have looked for a stab wound? Fuck. 

This is why he didn’t try saving things.

He was Damon goddamnit not Stephan.

He drew his attention back to the road and tried to chill. It’s just an unconscious kid, Dean didn’t smell blood, he was breathing. Right now all he could do was drive and think, right? Okay, he took a breath himself. Okay so, he’s human. Humans need basic human necessities. That’s a thing. He’s fairly sure that’s a thing at least. Not something he’s always had, but something he could provide to this kid until they both could move on. Dean out of state preferably, and this kid to somewhere that’s not the afterlife, also preferably. 

He made a mental list of things he might need before they reached the motel and kept an eye out for a gas station or convenience store. So what? Dean may suck at saving things, but he could do this. Dean nodded to himself, he just had to keep saying that.

He could do this.

* * *

  
  


He couldn’t do this. 

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t,  _ he couldn’t do this _ .

Stiles couldn’t  _ breathe _ , the flowers growing in his throat were suffocating him and the panic building up beside them made the intake of oxygen impossible and Stiles knew he’d be passing out if he didn’t take any air into his lungs soon.

It had happened before sure, many times actually. After his mom’s death, after the kanima, after the alpha pack. After the Nogitsune. Stiles hadn’t been a stranger to panic and anxiety attacks for most of his admittedly short and traumatic life. Usually though he could lock himself in his room and pass out in relative safety if he couldn’t calm himself down.

Usually he would be doing that, if he hadn’t chosen to run away from home and the unrequited love of his life. Stiles would whimper if he had any ability to do so.

Instead, he passed out. 

On the side of a road with a car coming right at him.

Well, Stiles thought before he’d been forced into unconsciousness, he’s going to be dying anyway, at least this way he won’t feel it.

…

Stiles woke up with a killer headache and a whimper. Which….was somewhat unexpected. 

Not the whimper, the waking up part.

He’d be grateful for it later, but before then he'd be busy trying to keep down the minimal contents of his stomach. He heaved and a waste basket appeared in front of him—which concerned him for reasons but he’d address that in a minute—before his head stopped spinning and the nausea went away.

“I feel like I got hit by a train.” He groaned.

“You look like death,” some dude’s voice agreed, “But you didn’t get hit by a train, or my car if you were wondering, be thankful my baby’s got good breaks.”

“Debatable.” Stiles muttered observing his host/rescuer/captor/miscellaneous man. A few inches taller than Stiles, buff, really defined jaw that in different circumstances might have made Stiles drool a bit, packing (in both ways ;), layers and flannel which Stiles could definitely appreciate, as well as the rest of the very pretty features on the young-looking face staring discontently at him. 

It reminded him of a certain alpha werewolf.

“First things first, where am I, who are you, what day is it? Then we can discuss why I’m not dead yet—on the side of the road or why you haven’t murdered me— and what you use that weaponry you’re carrying for.” Stiles caught sight of the horned amulet the man wore and considered his life as of late before continuing to speak, “Say, ever heard of a wendigo?”

He jolted a bit in surprise and Stiles sighed. The suspicion that followed the surprise had been quickly covered up by blankness but Stiles knew what that meant. He sighed again. 

A hunter. He had to be a hunter. 

“Full disclosure, dude, I’m a human, I’m in the know, and not totally incompetent when I’m not feeling like I’ve been hit by a train.” Which to be fair hasn’t been in a long while, but even then Stiles is actually very good at doing all the necessary research, leaving hints without making anyone suspicious, and covering his tracks well enough that the wolfies, his dad, the police, and Argent (if they somehow rope him into this) will be damn pressed to find any trace of Stiles. They may not think he’s Lydia smart, and they’d be right because he isn’t. Stiles despises math and adores words and puzzles, but he knows her IQ, and he knows his is in fact higher. He has respect for her brain but Stiles’ works differently, and he’s totally getting off topic right now in front of a hunter that Stiles totally couldn’t beat physically in this state. Or in any state actually. 

“And how do you know I’m human?” The hunter asks, and well if he’s asking then he hasn’t been in the game too long or he wants to know what Stiles knows. He’s a little offended that this dude who looks mid to late twenties is judging his intelligence when he managed to deduct what he does in less than a minute with a pounding headache, nausea, and while apparently looking like death.

Stiles waved a hand dismissively which wow, took a lot of effort and he let it fall back to the lumpy but comfortable bed he’s currently lying in. “No creature with powers, fangs, claws, or assorted other abilities and non human body parts would use man made weapons. 1) because guns smell bad to their delicate heightened senses, 2) most of them have had a fuck ton of bad experiences with hunters, 3) it’s not natural to their creature instincts and most have never seen a reason to learn, especially if they’re born and not turned. I could keep going but you get the point, don’t you Mr. Hunter.” 

Hunter-man stiffened. “Never said I hunted.” Which—like, dude, isn’t even a denial. Nevertheless, Stiles rolled with it and —true to Stiles-fashion— replied with snark.

“Never said you were human either. I’m Stiles, I know everything.” 

He’s only a little disappointed when the huntsman (Little Red style more so than Snow White from what Stiles could tell at the moment) asked “What’s a Stiles?” instead of noticing the little ‘Suits’ reference. He’d felt proud for slipping in Donna’s line, after all the second most prominent red headed goddess in his life deserved a little recognition. 

Wait— c’mon brain, back on track, praise the strong females later, deal with macho-hunting dude now.

“Me. It’s my name, I’m a Stiles. One of a kind, with an ‘i’ not a ‘y’.”

“The distinction wasn’t necessary.”

“Neither is all your bullshit alpha male posturing, now answer my questions.”

“I thought you knew everything.” He countered and oh, did someone want a demonstration?

“You’re young, too young even to be hunting, but the way you hold yourself, the confidence cocksure stance tells me you have experience. Years of experience so most likely raised in the life, raised and traumatized by your hunter parent and all your hunting experiences. You’ve seen some shit clearly, in our life you don’t make it out unscathed, innocents don’t always survive, and yes I said  _ parent _ . If you were raised in this shittyness you’re either a legacy or you’ve lost someone to the big bad of that week way back when, that someone being dear to the person left standing who raised you as a soldier more than a son.”

“Seeing as you use your confidence as a facade and probably have a ton of issues expressing emotions or talking about anything of actual importance that isn’t life or death situations, I’m willing to bet your parent was your dad. Now where is daddy? He’s a hunter, he raised you to hunt, some would even call it grooming which is frowned upon in polite society b-t-dubs. You wouldn’t have kept me if you had your stonecold father here to make you drop me off at a hospital, where I’d never see your face and I wouldn’t be here to tie you down or ask inconvenient questions. No, you’re alone. And now I’m here.”

“So tell me. What. I. Want. To. Know.” And damn, Stiles impressed himself even if the hunter looked the opposite of endeared. He decided he’d count it as a win if he didn’t get murdered for his spiel. That seemed reasonable right?

  
  


* * *

  
  


Never mind, it didn’t matter if Dean could do it, he didn't even want to now. 

Out of all the people in the world, in all the places, Dean managed to end up in the middle of nowhere California barely avoiding hitting the one human kid who knew about the supernatural, and apparently enough to pick up a concerning amount of detail about Dean himself in under 7 minutes. 

Could he call bullshit and leave? Genuinely asking, would he be sent back to hell for abandoning the kid? The little shit called him out, and had given him a fake name—or at least a nickname—which meant he had no chance in hell of finding and leaving the kid with the responsible adults who usually (tried and probably failed) held his leash. 

And to think, the Bambi eyes that he’d first seen had been so deceiving and innocent. But Bambi—Stiles—had been correct. Dean should have taken him to a hospital, and Josh Winchester would have made him had he still been alive. 

Then again nothing Stiles had said hadn’t been true, he could blame John just as much for his decision as he could himself. 

Dean resisted the urge to scrub his face with his hand or breathe too deeply (something smelled funky in the room. Fuck, he hated motels) in a way that could be recognized as a sigh. He considered Stiles, and Stiles stared back at him. Sort of—the kid still looked spacey and generally just a bit discombobulated. 

“Since you’ve told the truth so far,” he stated, which Dean knew because he tested, silver, holy water, iron, and salt to prove he’d picked up a human kid and not some creature planning on eating him, “I’ll return the favour. I’m Dean Winchester-” there was a spark of confused recognition in the kid’s eyes, “And I’m as much of a hunter as you’re not.” Suffice to say Dean could tell this kid didn’t hunt. He had Sammy’s build pre  _ hey, dad is missing you need to come help me find him _ and all the resulting shit they’d gone through.

While checking the kid for stab wounds which he’d thought had been the reason for the shallow breathing he’d found more than a few old wounds that would draw attention anywhere. Scars from torture not more than a year or two old decorated his abdomen, scars that he had noted suspiciously resembled claw marks were spread over him like a canvas, and a litchenberg figure decorated most of his collar on the left side spanning from pec to neck. 

He may not particularly like the kid currently, but he’d clearly been through some shit and Dean could appreciate a survivor. 

And he could relate to a runner.

Clear as day, Stiles is running to or from something, maybe he’s just running, Dean wasn’t omniscient like Stiles proclaimed to be so he didn’t know. He did know the kid needed help and damnit, the Bambi eyes did get to him, false innocence be damned. 

Didn’t mean he wanted to do this anymore than earlier still.

“You’re still in California, you collapsed on the side of some backstreet around 6 or 7 ish last night so I paid for this room at one of the least shadier ones I came across. I don’t kill innocents, I avoid killing kids unless I really have to. Not every creature I’ve come across had been an adult when turned, once came across a nest of vamps almost entirely made of kids that had been dropping bodies like flies.”

Emotions flew across the kids face faster than Dean could decipher while he talked (though he definitely caught elation when he mentioned vamps that morphed into horror) though Dean felt the interest the kid practically radiated.

“Wait, hold on one second. Did you say Dean Winchester? As in Carver Edlund’s Dean Winchester?”

“Oh God.” Dean groaned. “Please don't ever mention that name or those books to me again. Carver Edlund is a pen name for a Prophet of God who had no right to write down a single word about Sam and I’s lives, let alone publish that trash fiction.” 

Stiles slowly nodded, “Sure, sus, but sure. Just f-y-i, I have so many questions that I  _ so _ plan on asking later, but primarily, I have to say you’re not as hot as I thought you’d be. Or as tall.”

Has Dean ever mentioned how much he really hates Chuck?

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always really appreciated, hope you enjoyed, more plot will begin to develope later, but the boys had to meet before we could start delving in to the nitty gritty. Stisaac will happen y’all, swear on it, scouts honour.
> 
> Lots of love to you Kitten, I hope this makes for a good gift!


End file.
